


Sore and sick and sad for some reason

by cherryhearts



Category: BoJack Horseman
Genre: Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26235982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryhearts/pseuds/cherryhearts
Summary: By now his face is numb and so are his fingers. Please, God, Mom, anyone.
Kudos: 35





	Sore and sick and sad for some reason

By now his face is numb and so are his fingers. His tongue is swollen, wedged firmly between his back teeth to lessen the grinding when his jaw violently clenches. He’s not quite drunk enough just yet to soften his overpoweringly wired high. He takes a warm gulp of bourbon and eats a couple more Xanax as Lauryl Canyon goes on living beyond his windows. It looks wild out there, although BoJack knows it isn’t, not anymore. Just some brush rabbits and eucalyptus and hopefully in summer some wildfires.

If he squints he can make out the time on his phone to be 4:04am. A shitty time to be alone. He should have called a woman to come over before he got this fucked up because he knows he won’t be able to perform now. He also knows that he smells bad and that his mouth tastes like infection, probably from a back tooth that he won’t get around to fixing. The pain of it is numbed anyway, his consciousness is melting out of his ears like sand.

It starts off as a barely perceptible shortness of breath. He’s lounging on the couch, legs spread open, slouched back when he notices it. He opens his chest a little bit and arches his back to make more room but it doesn’t help much. He pulls open his robe and yanks it off as he begins to overheat. He’s watching himself, years younger, on his flatscreen TV. His current reflection and his younger self overlap, staring at each other. He’s sweating now, getting chills.

It grows worse. He feels his breath catching, his lungs filling up to less than usual capacity. Beneath him he can feel the fibres of the couch grow suddenly scratchy and sore. A sharp inhalation makes him wheeze. He starts to feel cold panic overtaking him as he staggers to his feet and stumbles across the room to the kitchen for a glass of water. As he shakily fills a tumblr he calls out on instinct, “Todd! I need help!”, although he knows deep down he’s alone. He knows deep down that the pounding pulse in his neck, his veins, the back of his skull is from too much cocaine. He knows deep down that he’s overdosing.

L.A looks warm and welcoming outside of his window for the first time in years, the yellow lights seem to beckon to him, wanting him to stay. He feels so fucking lonely, he feels so fucking frightened. He’s coughing now, wheezing hard, struggling just to take one half breath into his lungs and the natural drive to survive is a physical overtaking. It makes him clutch his chest and throat like they do in movies and his legs go shaky and collapse underneath him. His knees hit the cool tiled floor, he is eye level now with the sink and can no longer see Los Angeles out there waving for him. Los Angeles can no longer see him. He thinks very clearly, _I don’t mind if I die, but I don’t want to go out like this._ Not on the floor of his kitchen, not so frightened, not in pain, he can’t die the way he’s lived his whole fucking life. _Please, God, Mom, anyone._ It really does grow dark around the edges, just like on television.

-

He wakes up with his cheek against the kitchen floor. _Oh, it must be sunrise_ , he thinks, because he can see pinks and reds and oranges through the thin skin of his eyelids. His whole body aches like shit, his bones crunch into each other, his eyes burn when he opens them blearily. There’s vomit on his face. He lays there for a long while, half naked, wet, cold, listening to the faint sound of the Horsin’ Around DVD menu music and his heavy, deliberate breathing.

Finally he pulls himself onto his knees, then drags himself up, holding onto the sink for leverage. Outside of his window Los Angeles is looking at him again, decidedly less welcoming. It isn’t sunrise, he realises, it’s sunset. He’s been blacked out for well over twelve hours. He thinks of his cold panic last night and gives an uneasy snort of laughter at himself. Stupid. Of course he wasn’t about to die, he just did a little too much, what a fucking drama queen.

Maybe he’ll call PC and take her out to dinner tonight and make it a funny story. Maybe he’ll call Diane. Actually fuck that, maybe he’ll invite that redhead from the bar and tell her to bring a friend. He tries to get back to the couch for the rest of that glass of bourbon but finds he’s shaking too badly to move. He looks down. His knuckles are white where he’s clinging to the sink for dear life.


End file.
